


Acts of Kindness

by lobst_r



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alpha Steve Rogers, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, HYDRA Trash Party, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mind Control, Mpreg, Omega Bucky Barnes, Porn With Plot, Prostitution, Rape, Sex Work, Threesome - M/M/M, Triggers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-10
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-04-21 02:15:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14274732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lobst_r/pseuds/lobst_r
Summary: By April 2000 the Winter Soldier could enter into a sequence of heats when ordered by a series of randomized code words. The heat spell would last until the traditional remedy was granted - an alpha’s knot and their sperm. If the exact combination wasn’t applied, the asset would be subjected to increasing levels of neural pain.Or:Sex worker!Bucky and a gratuitous daily fuck-or-die scenario.





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [End of an Era](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12117711) by [cleo4u2](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cleo4u2/pseuds/cleo4u2), [xantissa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xantissa/pseuds/xantissa). 



One would be thoroughly surprised when quizzed about the numerous, deep-running, very much ongoing ties between an unnamed underground fascist organization and big-time American commercial businesses. 

 

For instance, a certain Mr. John Tackett, a beta man with some means and a prematurely bald head, invested a quarter of his inheritance into the technical procedure of laser hair removal at the tail end of the 1980s. Tackett, a lover of rock music and smoker of cigars, had ties to a certain security firm named Lowell Inc. by virtue of his lovely wife, who was the niece of said firm’s CEO. When the Berlin Wall fell and the soviet block dissolved into the dregs of wild capitalism, stocks fell and Tackett was confronted with the very real possibility of losing his money.

 

The CEO of Lowell, Douglas Farber, answered to his favorite niece’s call for help and rang up his business associate and old pal Alexander Pierce, Undersecretary of the World Council and high ranking Hydra agent. After a few tweaks and a couple of months of back and forth, it was agreed upon that a newly acquired subject would be provided for testing.   

 

On a sweltering August day in 1993, the Winter Soldier was taken out of a year long period of cryostasis after being shipped out of Kiev. Farber would later explain to Mr. and Mrs. Tackett over steak and Cabernet Sauvignon that the test subject was perfect because it had the physiology of an omega and thus the matching hormone levels, which were essential to any hair growth. All prototypes could be tested with only hours of recuperation, or, as the man put it himself: „Efficiency’s wet dream.“ 

 

The Winter Soldier underwent eight continuous months of laser treatment in its groin, legs and underarm, grueling procedures that were of equal interest to the American scientists itching their knuckles to test their newest asset. The enhanced healing process of it made estimations tricky, and a team of five, including a dermatologist flown in from Denver, monitored the process. 

 

By 1995, the first laser model targeting hair removal was approved by the FDA, out on every store shelf and Tackett thrice a rich man. He donated a seizable sum to Lowell Inc., which in turn was invested in an office building in New Jersey. The now completely hairless Winter Soldier was moved to the thoroughly fortified basement of said building, cryo-chamber and all. 

 

 

-

 

 

Thus, what started off as a small, personal favor turned into a booming business. Renting out their asset to affiliated partners was not only lucrative, it fortified ties. As politics and big money overlapped more often than not, it also meant pleasing lawmakers and their possible replacements come election cycle.      

 

Alexander Pierce personally oversaw this part of the Winter Soldier program, though it remained conspicuously unnamed. Many of the interested parties were pharmaceutical companies; a fortuitous chance presented itself when Bayer called to test some half-developed fertility medication or other. The Winter Soldier spent most of Spring 1998 injected into unbearable cycles of heat, which yielded groundbreaking results for the scientists studying its contracting womb.

 

Pierce, at that point, had already developed an unhealthy infatuation with the idea of innovative programming. The soviet branch of Hydra had dutifully installed all the usual things, pain reactions, short-outs, kill orders - in Pierce’s opinion, it was all utterly uninspiring. Bayer’s experimentations animated him to pursue a command that could activate the asset’s biology. 

 

In between all the prodding and pulling, the Winter Soldier completed a series of kills, mostly in the Balkans where war left the earth riddled with mines and soaked in blood. 

 

The new millennia came about and Alexander Pierce turned 64, an occasion he celebrated with loving friends and family at his vacation home in the Hamptons. While toasting to a long life and good business partners, he also cryptically mentioned a successful project with much passionate professional involvement. 

 

By April 2000 the Winter Soldier could enter into a sequence of heats when ordered by a series of randomized code words. The heat spell would last until the traditional remedy was granted - an alpha’s knot and their sperm. If the exact combination wasn’t applied, the asset would be subjected to increasing levels of neural pain. Pierce, staunch conservative and proud alpha that he was, held a life-long firm belief that no other method of heat relief was acceptable. 

If it was the case that the programming wasn’t halted by a matching set of code words, another heat session would hit, at exactly twenty-four hours after the last tremor had wracked the Soldier's body. 

 

This could be repeated as long as the handler deemed necessary. Pierce spent most of his late office hours in November 2003 knotting the Winter Soldier, allowing it brief reprieve before driving home a whistling, jolly man. The next day, he would wait until the heat started, watching with glee and fascination before repeating the whole procedure. That coincidentally was also the year he decided on growing out its hair, a glossy curtain to tangle his hands in while rutting into it from behind. 

 

It was briefly debated whether the asset should also be bred for offspring, but the idea was quickly discarded as it would cost them nearly nine months of operational time and success was in no way guaranteed.  

 

 

-

 

 

Of course, many of Hydra’s loyal employees whispered amongst themselves in the following years. The ones that were responsible for the Soldier’s maintenance told the others of its strange, contradictory body: smooth, hairless skin all over, horrible scarring on its left shoulder. The menacing metal arm with its red star and a head of lush, glossy chestnut hair. 

 

„ _It is made and unmade according to its master’s will_.“ 

 

„ _It is obedient above all_.“ 

 

„ _It serves us well_.“ 

 

Such trite sentences were passed back and forth, though in private lewder things were said and done. The youth that joined Hydra were often of a certain type, yearning for power, hungry for blood and reverent of authority and obedience. 

 

Theodor W. Adorno once wrote about the authoritarian personality, a set of traits that are characterized by the belief in absolute submission of one’s self to a higher authority. Among these traits was the clear discomfort with any type of sexuality, as well as the incessant need to dominate.  

 

Brock Rumlow, a former Navy SEAL turned SHIELD/Hydra operative, took over main care of the Winter Soldier in 2008. Rumlow, as according to Adorno’s theory, was the very type of person to make thorough use of the asset. He led team bonding exercises which centered on the Winter Soldier and its slick, swollen hole. He liberally used the soviet pain programs during the heats. He even cut out chunks of the assets hair and took digital photographs of its blank, slackened face and the misshapen hairstyle. 

 

Unsurprisingly, it was Rumlow who spoke the series of activating code words into the Winter Soldier’s ear before Captain America and his allies shot Project Insight to hell in 2014. 

 

In all the strange ways Tackett’s hair removal investment had impacted the world, this would have been by far the strangest. James Buchanan Barnes awoke to the world in the throes of heat, urged on by the needs coded into him by Alexander Pierce. He would later on grow to understand that his yearnings were by no means carved into his flesh and bones, that his biology determined nothing and no-one. 

 

On the riverbanks of the Potomac, panicked and wild-eyed, he turned and found the nearest alpha. 


	2. Asteroids

Like the dregs of rain that made June in D.C. a flood of disaster, Steven G. Rogers received the bitter news of his best friend’s whereabouts while sopping wet on his morning run. He had rounded the National Mall all of twenty-three times, pretending that the downpour was sweat that had, in fact, never broken.

 

Romanoff passed him by in a stylish sports-car during his twenty-fourth lap, rolling down her window with an impassive look and a stack of documents on the passenger seat. They engaged in a brief staring competition before Rogers got in, shoulders hunched, white shirt almost transparent on his chest.

 

She told him that the former Winter Soldier had „settled down“ in New Jersey, that he had been renting a motel room near a highway and was receiving clients on a daily basis as a prostitute. Rogers made the water bottle in his fist burst upon those news, drenching the expensive leather seats. All the while he groused and swore, colorful language laced with expletives and insults.

 

He had never been particularly good at containing his anger.

 

Romanoff, with her unplaceable scent and not-quite-amusement, drove him to what she called one of her places and showed him surveillance footage from the past week. Rogers sat down heavily and went on to watch all of the seven relevant hours on three monitors.

 

Barnes entering his room (No. 213), Barnes leaving his room (dressed in a red henley, long hair open), Barnes opening his curtains (metal hand briefly catching the sunlight), Barnes opening the door for a burly man with a crew cut (tilting his neck to the side with a primal gesture of submission), the burly man leaving Barnes room after forty minutes and twenty-two seconds (lighting a cigarette on his way out).

 

Some scenes he replayed, just to feel the sadistic tug of pain in his own stomach, others he put on fast forward lest he'd linger and try to zoom in on Barnes’ face, something so familiar that it swam before his eyes in a blur when he tried to picture it in clarity.

 

Rogers went home after watching a night’s worth of surveillance footage and immediately received his next mission directives. He boarded a nondescript quinjet without sleeping and was gone for a solid month and a half.

 

The next time he came in for Romanoff’s update it was a brick of a summer’s day, solid and soupy and so hot he sweat from his palms while typing. He drank cooled gatorade and flicked through the thousand-hour-window into Bucky Barnes life. He had received a client every single day, all Alphas, all male. They entered room No. 213 between 19:45 and 20:15 and left after no longer than fifty five minutes. He bought groceriesat a nearby Costco, which had a wealth of eight security cameras, documenting Barnes between aisles of cornflakes and rows of vegetables and sanitary pads.

 

Rogers imagined popping up between the cabbage and the sweet corn, yelling „SURPRISE“ at the top of his lungs before lurching forward and sinking his teeth into the side of his neck. It was a satisfactory fantasy, a public claiming on a grimy supermarket floor, the pair evenly matched and equally as enthusiastic. „Took ya’ long enough,“ Bucky Barnes would say to him, and they would share a lover’s kiss tasting of blood.

 

He jerked himself off later that evening, within the safe confines of his bathroom, staring at his own foggy reflection. It was not a new habit, by any means - Steve Rogers had been masturbating to his gorgeous Omega best friend ever since he failed to properly hit puberty at thirteen. Not presenting as anything at all in the subsequent years and throughout his adulthood did not prevent him from obsessively wanting James B. Barnes.

 

Psychologists would nod along to the tale with a knowing smile.

 

A weedy little man with no designation and unbridled fury over the plethora of injustices the world had to offer. The most ardent revolutionary that harbored nothing but reactionary secret desires. As much as Steve had opposed the rigid spaces designations pushed them into, he knew, deep down, that he himself was an Alpha, an Alpha in a body too weak to make it known.

 

In the unspoken, dirty places of his mind, it made perfect sense. For as much as he fought against it, loving and having Bucky would make the most sense if he was an Alpha. The twisted knowledge of this truth had left him with nothing but anger and self-hatred, as well as two skinny fists.

 

Steve Rogers, who was currently more icon than human, pushed his thumb against the slit at the head of his cock and came, choking down moans and dirtying his cooling mirror image with splashes of gooey white. He closed his eyes and recalled his fantasy, something cheesy and awful that made his blood boil. It involved him pulling one of the countless men off Bucky, who was laid bare with his legs spread open, pink hole twitching and slick, unsatisfied with his eyes half-lidded until Steve shoved inside him, pushing away any of the other Alphas that had ever touched him.

 

Rendering them irrelevant, puny, small. 

 

 

*

 

 

Rogers lost more than a few night’s sleep.

 

His D.C. apartment remained inexplicably hot for almost a week, which meant that he slept with all the windows thrown wide open. An insolent street cat once tried to enter, but he shooed it away, all the while tossing and turning on the tacky surfaces available to him.

 

His S.H.I.E.L.D. affiliated physician, one of the few that had passed the thorough background check after the Triskelion, upped the doses of his suppressants and told him to avoid undue stress lest he wanted to go into rut unexpectedly. Rogers had a hearty laugh and went on his next mission solo, retrieving fifteens tons of paperwork from an Ukrainian Hydra archive.

 

Wilson confronted him a few days after his ragged, dusty return, having cereal at the kitchen counter.

 

„Why in Gods name have you not gone see your boy?“, he asked, pointing his spoon at Roger’s big, crooked nose. It was a valid question, and one that Rogers had no immediate answer for. At least, no answer that wouldn’t require him to break down the innermost parts of himself and reveal the shame and anger that imploded at least a thousand times every day.

 

He continued on with his cycle of avoidance and incessant video watching. His inhuman eidetic memory helped him recognize each and every john that entered Bucky Barnes’ motel room, especially the ones that were on their way to becoming solid regulars. There was one he called the Nose, because for all his slight frame the Alpha had a larger beak than Rogers himself. He started jerking off to fantasies of the Nose eating Barnes’ slick ass, shoving the tip into the warm, wet heat, filling his nostrils with the syrupy warm scent Rogers knew so well.

 

Then there was the Burly man who couldn’t walk with his legs closed. Rogers had gently pried into Burly’s identity, which revealed him as Jimmy Gonzalez Jr., barkeeper and divorced father of three. He kept on calling him Burly inside his head and decided that the man liked to fuck Barnes up against the thin motel walls, to demonstrate his strength.

 

Rogers would always laugh at that thought, because he had seen Barnes flip over a car with his metal arm. He had been punched in the face by those fists, choked and pushed off the side of a helicarrier. Burly had no strength compared to Bucky Barnes.

 

The one client that truly made acid rise up his esophagus was the Charmer. He came to see Barnes every Friday, dressed to the nines in a shiny black shirt and polished shoes. He brought things in a plastic bag that Rogers had yet to identify, and he smoked with Barnes sitting on the steps leading to the decrepit swimming pool on no less than four occasions. He imagined their conversations, or the way they would fuck slow and languid, smiling at each other and nothing at all.

 

It all culminated on the last warm day at the tail end of September when Rogers woke to a memory of Barnes' youthful, gap-toothed smile and came into the scratchy fabric of his cheap underwear.

 

He got up slowly but surely, the soreness of his muscles strangely missing, and went on to dress for a longer ride. He packed more gatorade and three banana bunches, as well as a family-sized pack of barbecue chips. Then he drove his bike to the nearest car rental place and selected a shiny, black SUV which he drove all the way to a bright pink roadside motel just off the highway near Pennsgrove, New Jersey.

 

He ruminated over his losses, thought about his Ma’ and her angry face in the morning, about the countless neighbors he’d had and the specific smell’s they’d brought along. He then thought about Margaret Carter, her gorgeous honey-and-thyme scent and her jaded wartime humor. He thought about her growing old and willed his brain to comprehend, which it quite simply did not. Then he nursed his guilt into a tiny compartment inside his chest and maneuvered the car into a parking slot just outside the reception.

 

Rogers took a few deep breaths. Then he fiddled with his smartphone and looked at a few apps. „It is fucking sweltering,“ he said out loud before clearing his throat, feeling like an absolute idiot, the silence in his car taking on an almost punishing quality. „Hey Buck, how have ya’ been? It’s really hot - _sweltering_ hot. Right?“

 

He didn’t move for an hour and a half.

 

His dick had grown hard at the sight of Barnes’ motel door, a Pavlov’s reaction due to all the beating off he had done just after monitoring the video feeds. His mind supplied him with unhelpful images of the Charmer taking Barnes from behind, rutting inside him while spewing clichéd filth. At ten past six in the afternoon, the door to room number 213 opened and Bucky Barnes walked out.

 

He didn’t make a beeline for anything and came straight to Roger’s rental SUV, knocking on the window with his metal hand. Rogers rolled down the sleek glass, clearing his throat a few times.

 

„Hey, Buck.“

 

„Hey Steve. You hot in there?“

 

„No, why?“

 

„You’re sweating like a stuck pig.“

 

„You mean bleeding.“

 

„You ain’t bleeding, pal.“

 

„You’re getting your idioms confused.“

 

„Must be the brainwashing.“

 

Rogers got out of the car with his legs crossed, still holding the family sized bag of chips. He offered some to Barnes, and they went on to eat the entire thing standing outside the SUV.

 

Barnes was rather flushed, color high in his cheeks, and there was a perpetual, almost-but-not-quite smell to him. Rogers’ erection did not go away, and his serum-made, frankly intimidating cock tented his pants like a caricature of some cartoon horndog. Barnes eyed the large bulge openly while stuffing himself with barbecue chips, the tip of his flesh and blood fingers turning orange with the seasoning.

 

„Do you want to come in?“ Barnes asked, clearing his throat. „Or do you want to like, get back in the car or something?“

 

„My throat is parched from the chips,“ Rogers said helpfully.

 

They went into room no. 213, closed the door and collided like two unlikely asteroids.


	3. Bananas

The first thing Rogers noticed was the weight loss.

 

Like a heavy weight boxer fallen on hard times, Barnes had lost muscle mass since their last encounter. The breadth of his shoulders betrayed the sinewy, if not bony frame underneath and his chin had grown almost comically pointy. At one point, Rogers remembered kissing his protruding clavicles, licking a perpendicular stripe up the hollows of his ribs until reaching a nipple. He knew he fit his thumbs into the soft spaces just above a pelvic bone while jackhammering his cock in and out.

 

The second thing he noticed was the strange smoothness. A lack of texture while nosing along Barnes’ jawlines, the flat, flawless expanse of his chest, marred only by the scarring along his left shoulder. His groin area was the strangest of all, or so he recalled. Bald as a peeled egg, glossed over with the sheen of sweat.

 

They fucked three times, the whole shebang, with hours knotted together and all the positions a porno could want. The sun set and rose while they gyrated together, sweaty and exhausted but nowhere near finished.

 

Rogers felt like he was in a fever dream, burning up in a slow, sluggish death while choking on Bucky Barnes’ slick, suffocated by the sharp tang of his heat scent. He thought about taking Barnes from behind while fucking him from below, thought about eating him out while receiving head, thought about shoving a wooden baton up there while he gently circled his hips and made Barnes come apart for the fifth or one hundredth time.

 

A deranged mind was best kept quiet, or so he told himself time and again.

 

He asked Barnes a few times throughout the night, while buried balls deep inside him, placing a questioning finger along the silky skin tight around his hole, the soft stretch of his perineum and the hairless, wet slide all the way up his crack. Barnes only shrugged against his chest and asked whether he liked it or not.

 

„Of course I fucking like it, what’s not to like,“ Rogers answered three times in a row.

 

They woke up in the early morning hours and went at it some more, bathed in the subdued light, sweating profusely, mouths tasting sour. Barnes told him about the kids that lived and played near the motel, voice croaky and hoarse from all the deep-throating he’d done. Rogers in turn told him about a book on the Vietnam war he’d read four months ago during a bout of insomnia. Then Barnes whistled a pop song and made him guess, and they went on to argue about music half-heartedly.

 

The third thing Rogers noticed were the numerous bundles of banana piled high on the motel dresser. There must have been eight or nine of them. Said bananas served as their breakfast, eaten while sitting up in bed.

 

Rogers went into rut promptly after finishing his eighteenth banana.

 

Looking back, it made medical sense that it had been triggered hours prior to their fucking. Yet in that moment he stared at the impressive pile of banana peels on the mattress and felt the searing churn in his guts, the itching hotness behind his ears and the painful hard-on tenting his shorts. He had just spent most of the last twelve hours having sex, and now his body had finally determined that it wasn’t enough by far.

 

 

*

 

 

The rampage lasted for two and a half days.

 

Rogers, in between rutting and growling and popping his knot, realized in his hindbrain that he wanted Bucky Barnes more than life itself and attempted to claim him with a mating bite. He received a metal fist for his efforts, knocking one of his teeth loose and bruising his left eye a vibrant purple.

 

He experienced bouts of anger, remembering that others had dared to touch Barnes. His anger canalized into bitter tears which Barnes had to wipe away with his grimy hotel sheet. Rogers found himself screaming in half-formed sentences, accusations hurled at Barnes for avoiding him, for hiding himself away, for falling and not taking his outstretched hand.

 

They were both bruised and drained by the end of the whole ordeal. 

 

On a bright, crisp Tuesday morning the caretaker of Super 8 Motels knocked on the door of room no. 213 and loudly informed Mr. Barnes that he had received twenty-two different complaints from fellow guests over the weekend. He was no longer welcome at their premises and was asked to vacate the room until noon.

 

„He was hooking on the side, too, has been for ages,“ the young mother of three living next door told the caretaker while puffing on a cigarette butt, clearly excited with the ruckus. „And the smell, boy, does he smell.“

 

Rogers helped by carrying three pillows and a potted plant with fleshy leaves. They were out of the room by half past ten and in a new motel by two in the afternoon, this one moderately nicer, though it sported a look they both managed to identify as „painfully 80s“.

 

„They gave me this one-sided handbook to catch up on culture and politics,“ Rogers explained his knowledge while Barnes told him about tasteless Hydra bunkers with brown walls and olive green plastic chairs. He remembered being undercover once, wearing turquoise pants and a pale lilac sportive jacket.

 

They passed the day settling in, Rogers pretending that he had simply moved in alongside Barnes, showering behind a plastic curtain with pink geometric patterns and eating a bucketload of Chinese takeout for dinner. Barnes kept to the rice, gobbling it down plain with gulps of water.

 

They talked some more, reclining on the bed and watching the news on the television. Images of Rohingya refugees followed footage of Syrian children squatting in the ruins of Damascus. Then a sixty minute show followed which portrayed the extravagant royal wedding of some Prince to an American woman, diamond tiaras and silk gowns included.

 

Barnes listened to him rant for some time, nodding his agreement, dropping the occasional dry remark on royalty and blue blood and weddings in general. He fell silent around seven-thirty, face flushing with heat, posture growing stiff. It did not dawn upon Rogers until the sticky heat scent crept up his nostril around ten past eight.

 

It aroused him, but the arousal felt forced, like a knee-jerk reaction.

 

„You’re still in heat,“ he told Barnes, who had slid between the pillows, hiding his face behind a curtain of dark, tangled hair. His T-shirt was already soaked through with sweat, and Rogers could make out the tendons in his neck.

 

„Yeah,“ Barnes threw him an incredulous look. His lips were pressed together in a tight, unforgiving line and Rogers immediately felt a spike of age-old fear, something he’d harbored since he learned to speak and realize that diseases and sickness were out of his own control.

 

„Listen, Bucky. You should come back to D.C. with me, I have an apartment, it’s big enough for the two of us.“

 

Barnes only fixed him with another unreadable look. He was unfastening his pants, pushing them downwards along with his underwear. The inside of his pale thighs were glistening with slick, a sight Rogers should have grown used to during the last few days. It shocked him all the same.

 

There was a silent question in Barnes’ naked presence, in his glassy eyes trained on his face. He returned the look and suddenly felt ill at ease, more so than the last time he’d faced down a platoon of militarized enemy agents. Barnes let out a groan and bit it back half-way through, an awful sound filled with exhaustion.

 

He got up from the bed, retrieved his pants, stumbling while pulling them on, sans underwear. Rogers sat speechless with the royal wedding program yapping on in the background as Barnes walked out of the motel room, back slumped, cradling his metal arm close.

 

The door closed with a curt, well-oiled snick.

 

The night went by in small increments. It started off with him scared out of his mind but unable to move even an inch, went on with him giving his hard, leaking cock painful jabs until it went limp and culminated with him taking out his trusted smartphone, flicking aimlessly through the internet while listening to his own elevated heartbeat.

 

At a quarter to four he opened the Winter Soldier files Romanoff had leaked months prior, and scrolled through the pages with a speed that had him reeling for purchase. His enhanced eyesight allowed him to reach the relevant pages at roughly six in the morning, an anonymous medical report on pain conditioning and hormone therapy dating to June 2001. He found a few more similar ones, starting in the late nineties, the most recent from 2007. At that point he made himself go to the dingy motel bathroom and heaved up a few mouthfuls of bile.

 

With a new direction in mind, he started an hour long search through the available Hydra archives until he found a signed agreement between a certain John Tackett and Lowell Inc., including a meticulously scanned photograph with two balding men posing with their arms around each other. In the background the blurred outlines of a person restrained on an operating table could be made out.

 

Rogers went into the bathroom and stared at the toilet bowl for God knows how long. He tried breathing in and out through his nose and willed the choking guilt to release its hold on his windpipe.

 

„I failed you,“ he told the toilet bowl. „I’m a fucking disgrace.“

 

 

*

 

 

There was a memory he kept going back to, something which hurt so much in retrospective that it almost made him laugh.

 

He had been transformed by the serum, standing more than six foot tall, breathing the fresh air of war and smack-dab in love with a beautiful omega. Unlike the first one he had pined over for years and years, this one returned his affection openly and immediately, letting him under her skirt within no time.

 

Of course, Barnes had somehow been there, rescued by Rogers himself and a pale shadow of what he used to be. It had been so freeing to love someone other than Barnes, so freeing to be what he had always known himself to be, to receive looks of admiration instead of disdain. He fucking loved the war, this he still knew.

 

It had been a soaked, rainy evening in northern France. Rogers had been contemplating over a photograph of Peggy Carter, thoroughly at ease with what he was now and where his new rank and name had taken him. Even the countless deaths hadn’t bothered him overly much back then.

 

Bucky Barnes, wan and pale, with bruises beneath his eyes had sidled up to him, breath bitter with cigarette smoke. He had leaned in, lips opening just a fraction, asking for what Rogers had always dreamed of until he became himself in the war.

 

He had backed away and shaken his head, and that was that.

 

 

*

 

 

The call came at seven sharp, and within minutes Rogers was driving back to D.C., ready to suit up for whatever mission awaited him this time. He left all the cash he had, two hundred dollars and fifty-seven cents, on Barnes’ bedside table and then placed the gleaming black credit card from his wallet next to it.

 

He boarded a stealth jet with Samuel Wilson already on board, and during the eight hour flight across the Atlantic he sat still and said nothing. He looked at his phone a few times, still activated, and thought of calling or sending a message, but the words slipped past his mind whenever he tried to formulate something passable.

 

He dreamed during his assigned hour of sleep, terrible dreams of him pushing Barnes away only to see him fall, of Barnes running and hiding, of the slick, smooth inside of his thighs. He then dreamed of the Nose fucking Barnes’ through his Hydra conditioned heat, easing away the pain and kissing the bow of his lips, again and again.

 

He sat up and typed _Sorry for trying to bite you_ on his phone before deleting the letters. _Forgive me, I love you_ , he typed before immediately deleting that too. He settled on _I’ll see you soon_ before realizing that he did not have Barnes’ number.

 

It was such a cosmic joke, to finally fall out of love just to have your feelings returned, to lose said person before waking up and finding him out of your reach. To fall desperately, awfully in love again without any prospect of ever being forgiven.

 

They went under for one month and five days, full black-out with no outside contact.

 

 


	4. Shares

November had crept over the country by the time Rogers managed to peel off the orthopedic cast engulfing most of his chest area. His skin itched something fierce, and even all healed up and smooth he found himself scratching until the gunk beneath his fingernails looked worryingly blood-like.

 

He took his bike to New Jersey without waiting for Romanoff’s usual surveillance update, pushing through icy rain and getting into an unholy fight with a middle-aged woman driving her screaming offspring while constantly honking and way above the speed limit. Rogers insulted her Ranger Rover, her parenting skills and told her to shut her trap.

 

He was strung taut as a bow.

 

The motel Barnes had moved to more than a month ago was nearly empty, with a few windows lit up and the entire parking lot deserted save for an old pickup truck. Rogers parked his bike and let himself be drenched in the rain while watching room no. 143. Half an hour passed until he picked up the movement from the corner of his eye, the door of the pickup opening with a creak and slamming shut.

 

„Whassup.“

 

He turned around slowly, taking in a young, slender alpha with his greasy dark hair combed back, wearing an ironed purple shirt and white leather loafers. The Charmer cocked an eyebrow beneath his gold-trimmed rickety umbrella, a bag in his left hand. One look told Rogers that it contained bananas.

 

„Sorry weather, isn’t it?“ Rogers said pleasantly. He could be a frighteningly good actor despite his quick temper.

 

„Yeah, man, yeah. You here for Jamie, huh?“

 

„I see you brought him bananas.“

 

„Yeah, yeah, he barely eats nothin’ else, man.“

 

Rogers had had a lifetime of practice sizing his opponents up. The Charmer had the looks of a guy doing his best to emulate what he imagined the rich and beautiful were like. Rogers, who had by now often enjoyed the dubious pleasure of parading himself in front of said rich folks, saw right through him. It still irked him, however, that the Charmer had thought to bring something. That he seemed to know Bucky Barnes well in some respect.

 

„He don’t like people coming in before eight, you know? So I’m waitin’ out here. But you should go in, man. He needs the money.“

 

„What are you doing here, then?“

 

„I just wanna ask Jamie if he wants ta’ get coffee with me tomorrow.“

 

„Is that so.“ Rogers smiled. It felt like swallowing acid.

 

„Yeah, you can pay him more, Mr. Rich Guy.“ Rogers snorted at that. He had never been one of the wealthy folks - it sounded downright ridiculous to his ears. Steve Rogers, rich and famous.

 

Introspection crawled up his back while the rain pelted off his leather jacket, and as strange as it was, he knew the Charmer was right. He realized his presence was imposing nowadays, made use of it often enough. And he truly hadn’t lacked in material needs ever since waking up, with several chock-full bank accounts he had trouble keeping track of.

 

It made a red-hot swell of anger fill his chest, that some random kid alpha had become the underdog, the gatherer of sympathies, the guy with no money to speak of but with dark, earnest eyes and a bag of bananas. Rogers, with his simmering hatred of the world and its ways had taken a twisted pleasure, a cold comfort of knowing that he stood on the right side of things.

 

Now he wasn’t so sure anymore.

 

At ten past eight Barnes cracked his door open and beckoned the two of them inside, the Charmer smiling and apologizing for getting the floor wet, Rogers with his jaw squared and empty-handed. They all sat, occupying the sole orange chair (Barnes), the bed (the Charmer) and the window sill (Rogers).

 

„Not to be rude, but. Someone needs to knot me.“

 

Rogers and the Charmer both stared at Barnes, their gazes sharp and hungry with the cloying scent that permeated the motel room. Barnes avoided making eye contact, he just stood and stripped out of his henley, exposing the smooth, pale skin of his torso. He hesitated before taking off his pants, speaking to Rogers: „You paid in advance last time.“

 

„That wasn’t payment. I owe you money from back in the day.“ Rogers bit out, forcing his hands to stay relaxed. „Gotta remind you, you paid the rent four years in a row.“

 

The Charmer decided to speak up then: „I can leave, that’s fine. I’ve nothin’ on me right now, anyway. Just wanted to ask if you’re free tomorrow -“

 

„Fine, I’ll do it then.“ Rogers raised his voice with a deliberate rumble, speaking over the other alpha. He got up to stand in front of Barnes, blocking the Charmer’s view. They gazed at each other, Barnes with his mouth pressed into a straight line, shoulders drawn up against the pain that was amplifying inside his head, Rogers trying not to scream in proprietary rage.

 

Then Barnes quirked a corner of his mouth, a pained half-smile: „Ya’ can stay Mikey, if you want. You can watch for a tenner if you bring it tomorrow.“

 

Rogers blanched. But God help him, he did not back out.

 

It played out like this: Mikey the Charmer took up a permanent seat in the orange chair with his fly open, fisting his cock with gusto, mouth open, garish purple shirt stripped half-off his shoulders. Barnes speared himself on Rogers cock, riding him in a reversed position, locking eyes with Mikey and vocalizing in breathy mewls.

 

(„Steve, I gotta give him a show, or what kinda shit hooker would I be?“)

 

Rogers enjoyed a prime view of his own serum-sized cock disappearing into the flushed, swollen hole he had dreamed of on a nightly basis. Barnes screamed in elation and relief when Rogers shoved his knot past the stretched rim, his tear-streaked face and bitten lips inducing Mikey the Charmer’s own orgasm that left him squeezing his flaring knot uselessly.

 

„Jamie, baby, please,“ Mikey whimpered.

 

Barnes beckoned him forward and swallowed up the length of him in one practiced go, pushing until his lips engulfed the half-blown knot at the base of his cock. Rogers tried his best to watch from where he was lying down, propped up on his elbow tasting a heady mixture of jealousy, hatred and unbearable arousal.

 

(„God, Jamie, you’re so good, I love ya’, Gaaahd.“)

 

He jerked his hips upwards and forced his knot against the slick passage, making Barnes give a muffled shout. He came again while knotted from both ends, tear tracks drying on his cheeks. His creamy hole contracted around Rogers’ cock while he suckled on Mikey’s knot rhythmically.

 

It was already past midnight when they finished. Rogers and the Charmer had taken turns fucking Barnes on his back, his side and on all fours. With a bout of manic possessiveness and inspiration Rogers had even picked him up and fucked him standing up, a frankly embarrassing show of his strength.

 

Later, much later in the evening when the Charmer had left, his pickup truck rat-tat-tat-ing its goodbye, Rogers placed his face in his big hands and cried.

 

 

*

 

 

It is, indeed, quite strange how humans can exist in between all the contradictions that make up their very being. Barnes, who had been tortured and raped, stripped of everything and anything, finding pleasure in the daily routines of prostitution, the definite knowledge of an end to the inevitable pain. Rogers, who dreamed of having his childhood friend all to himself yet enjoyed watching him bounce on another man’s lap. A push and pull between all the desires a man could have.

 

They showered together come morning and didn’t speak of the past night, choosing to argue about all things holy and mundane, baseball and furniture and movies. Rogers ate his fill of pancakes (seven stacks) at a diner while Barnes ate his bananas and sipped on tap water. They walked around in the frigid light of day, bumping shoulders, giving each other knowing smirks and little hand gestures. The day passed almost as if in trance, and come eight o’clock Rogers pushed into the tight, slick heat of Bucky Barnes’ never-ending torment, popping his knot and spilling his seed.

 

They slept tangled in a heap, with Rogers tense and afraid to move in case it might all fall apart.

 

 

*

 

 

Experts would have told Rogers that he suffered from severe depression. As things were, he didn’t need anyone teaching him to place the dread that swooped low in his stomach when he received a call after three days spent at Barnes’ motel room. He took his bike back to D.C. on the same evening and suited up for a mission briefing with a newly assembled STRIKE team.

 

They boarded a chartered jet and were gone for the week.

 

Rogers excelled at what he did, there was no question to it. The mantle of Captain America fitted him like no other. It made him feel good, safe, useful - attributes he wouldn’t have necessarily chosen in his alley-centered flea-ridden past life. He also knew that at the current state of matters, Bucky Barnes wasn’t his to have or hold. He couldn’t make promises to ease away the hurt every day at 20:00, he couldn’t even promise to make a sorry call.

 

Thoughts of Mikey the Charmer taking Barnes out for coffee and the pictures crowded his waking hours. He dreamed of them laughing together and fucking vigorously, an activity he could now recall before his mind’s eye in crystal clear quality from his cursed eidetic memory. Mikey, with his awful fashion choices and oily hair, he would by all means be a better alpha to Barnes than Rogers himself.

 

At times he allowed himself several different fantasies, all of them vaguely outlined and filled with Barnes calling him alpha and telling him that he loved him. Number one saw Rogers returning Barnes’ advances in 1945, dipping his head down to kiss his chapped lips, taking him to bed in one of the military issued tents. They would make love with their noses bumping together, Barnes smiling like they had just won the war.

 

That one was relatively tame. 

 

The second fantasy had Barnes moving into his D.C. apartment, greeting him after a mission with his legs spread and a casserole in the oven. He would be desperate and in an awful lot of pain, which Rogers would then ease away by shoving in his dick. Barnes would wail in delight and offer him the unmarred expanse of his neck to bite.

 

He got hard in his pants every time he visualized it. Arousal mixed with the acrid taste of shame, for there was no question that he loved the idea of being Barnes’ sole source of relief, the only one to stop his torment and grant him pleasure. It was a power trip, steeped in selfishness and garnished with a side of jealous, deranged anger.

 

His third fantasy played out in the field, at changing locations, though most of them were either warehouses or underground facilities with identical metal doors. Rogers would find himself destroying Hydra equipment, among them cryo tanks and stunt batons still covered in blood. He would watch the whole place burn, laughing with the joy of it and Barnes would appear out of nowhere, crowding against him, kissing him with wild glee in the face of destruction and mayhem. They would also fuck, but it wasn’t as important as the shared taste of vengeance.

 

Roger reprimanded himself into the third one more often than not, and it fueled him during the entirety of the mission. He returned to his empty apartment after ten days and countless debriefing sessions at the new amalgam organization consisting of former S.H.I.E.L.D. agents and Avengers affiliates. He slept for two days straight and woke up to eat every last thing in his kitchen before having nine burgers at the nearest McDonalds. Romanoff sent him a meeting time for a Winter Soldier update, but Rogers, sweaty, greasy and stubbly, stayed in his bed.

 

His eyes remained open at times, closed at others, but he didn’t move a fucking inch for three days.

 

 


End file.
